


Fall Children

by Blake



Category: AFI (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2020, Anal Sex, Biting, Cross-Generational Friendship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dairy Steak, Friends With Benefits, Halloween, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Other, Witchcraft, hatred of fans, references to COVID-19, references to american politics, vampire role play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26999863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Harry Styles comes knocking at Davey's door on Halloween dressed in a collared cape, plastic vampire fangs, and black fishnets.
Relationships: Davey Havok/Harry Styles
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	Fall Children

**Author's Note:**

> This story happened [because of my wife's most excellent little ficlet about this very idea.](https://alienfuckeronmain.tumblr.com/post/631565931020173312/vewy-scawy-a-halloween-playlist-blake-is-gonna) I also wrote it as a treat for myself because mercury retrograde is hitting hard. I hope you enjoy!

The number of times that Davey has been asked if he has plans for Halloween is absurd. Like, sure, he gets it. He used to put pumpkins on his stage. His band had a whole All Hallows EP. He used to have what might be referred to as multiple Halloween tattoos. That doesn’t mean he’s any fun to be around every October the 31st.

So his answer has been the same every time. _Yes, I do. Sorry! Let’s facetime soon._ He always includes that as a gentle reminder that in-person social gatherings are still not exactly a great idea, so nobody should be looking for Halloween parties to attend anyways.

But he hesitates when Harry Styles texts him, _Got any plans tomorrow?_

Davey looks over at his altar, where he’s planning to spend most of the full moon practicing some pre-election witchcraft by himself. It’s not every year the power of the full moon aligns with the thinning of the veil at Samhain. It’s not every year a Halloween full moon happens three days before an election that could kill the world. Davey’s got big plans.

 _Not really_ , he texts back like an idiot. It’s just that his real plans are kind of embarrassing. Not because they involve witchcraft, but because occasionally fucking Harry has, for some reason, inspired him to start writing spells for other people, for the world, and not just for his own messed up life. He’s like a high schooler with a crush. It’s some kind of magic.

So Harry Styles comes knocking at his door on Halloween dressed in a collared cape, plastic vampire fangs, and black fishnets. He doesn’t wait for an invitation, though. He just walks right on in through the doorway, pushing a bunch of papers into Davey’s chest. “So you can come in me this time,” he says.

Davey listens to the sounds of the vampire in block platform heels stumbling down his hallway and looks over the sheets of paper. Test results. For COVID, HIV, and everything in between. He’s honestly kind of impressed that Harry remembered and respected Davey’s stated boundaries from their previous encounters, but he’s also nervous, because now he has no good excuse not to respect Harry’s stated preferences for having come in his ass. All he’s got now is the feeling of _it’s not clean_ , which is a whole vague and fucked up thing he should probably unpack someday, if the election doesn’t kill the world.

Fortunately, he finds Harry sitting at his kitchen table, staring at the pumpkin-shaped bowl of expensive vegan chocolate bars as if politely waiting for permission.

“Help yourself, sugar.” Davey absolutely freezes when he hears the word come out of his mouth. Well, all except his heart, which feels like it’s about to knock his eardrums out. He can’t believe he just presumptuously called Harry Styles _sugar_. He can’t believe he called _anybody_ sugar. Not seriously, anyways. It’s been a long time since he batted his lashes at aggressive macho guys in the mosh pit with fake, saccharine pet names. He’s probably called some of his exes _sweetheart_ , probably, in a very calculated way, because he knew they wanted to hear it. He’s probably never called Jade anything, in a very calculated way, because Jade didn’t want to hear it.

Come in the ass and pet names. Maybe, just maybe, Jade’s the reason for a lot of things Davey’s messed up about.

Anyways, Harry is fellating his second Ocho chocolate bar by the time Davey’s heart recovers from his pet-name slip-up. Really, if he’s going to get some good spells done later tonight, he’d better get his act together.

“Your place isn’t as spooky as I expected,” Harry comments with a chocolate-smeared pout.

Davey turns nervously to his altar, which is crammed full of herbs, candles, jars, cards, and things that burn. It’s more of a year-round décor, he supposes. Not exactly spooky. “I think I’ve already paid my Halloween dues.”

“Are you going to dress up as anything?”

Davey looks down at his drapey black garments and striped socks. “I’m dressed as a witch?”

“Oh.” Harry looks visibly disappointed. With a bubble of something like laughter or acid in his stomach, Davey realizes there’s probably a reason Harry Styles asked to spend Halloween with _him_ , specifically, and not some other random guy _without_ a satanic past and a history of graveyard location shoots.

“Did you know tonight’s a full moon?” he hears himself asking, voice tight and desperate, even though there’s absolutely no way he’s going to involve anybody else in his witchcraft. He knows exactly how that has worked out in the past. He wants nothing like that ever again.

Luckily, Harry is reading labels of candy bars, seemingly bored by the conversation. “Yeah, it was pretty bright on my way over.”

Davey cannot for the life of him remember why he first started finding Harry Styles charming, but he somehow still does find him charming. The appeal is kind of locked up in the illogic of it all. It’s humiliating. He drops to his knees in front of his own dining table and slides his hands slowly up the length of Harry’s thighs, nails snagging in the diamonds of his fishnets until he gets under the miniskirt. “ _I vant to suck you_ ,” he says in the stupidest vampire accent he can muster.

Harry’s legs open terribly easily. So much trust always frightens Davey, but he keeps his hands from going still. “My blood?” Harry asks happily, offering up his femoral artery.

Davey only has to shut his eyes to block out memories for three seconds, which isn’t so bad. “No. Just you.”

As requested, he fucks Harry without a condom.

“Bite me,” Harry says, but his voice is shaken loose by the rapid fucking, so Davey can’t be sure.

“What?” he asks, looking down at Harry’s extremely bitable nipples where his tits bounce slightly with every thrust.

In response, Harry just arches his neck up, looking up at the headboard. Davey can take a hint.

“ _Let me taste your blood, my love. Let me make you mine. You’ll be mine. We’ll be lovers together, for eternity, forever_ ,” he whispers against Harry’s jugular. It’s a game. A joke. He slides the plastic vampire fangs from Harry’s gaping, drooling mouth and puts them in his own, unclean. Then he bites, and smiles. Harry laughs, and doesn’t come until a few minutes later when he’s full of come and fingers and Davey’s real teeth are digging into his nipple.

Harry starts to fall asleep right away. Davey makes more than one attempt to wake him up and drag him to the shower to clean up, but he stubbornly insists on falling asleep in Davey’s bed with soon-to-be-crusty come leaking out of his asshole. Davey just turns him over onto his front to spare his sheets.

Since Harry is apparently sound asleep, Davey showers, pulls on some Christmas pajama pants, and starts burning some palo santo to cleanse out his spellwork area. He’s just shuffling his tarot deck to get a feel for what he can responsibly aim for tonight when he is interrupted by not the sound of the shower running, but the sound of bare feet pattering down his hallway.

“What’re you doing?”

Davey turns to see Harry wearing a silk robe he helped himself to, rubbing his eyes, and stumbling toward Davey’s altar.

“Nothing.” Davey straightens his tarot deck and tucks it away under the fold of his crossed legs.

Harry gives him an accusatory look. “I’m friends with Stevie Nicks, you know.”

It’s funny. Davey laughs. He’s fucking someone who name-drops Stevie Nicks not as a legend, but as a witch. “Okay, fine, I’m getting in touch with the universe to see if I can sway the election.”

Harry’s big hands drop to Davey’s shoulders, massaging aggressively, rewardingly. He drops to his knees behind Davey, a grounding weight. “Sounds spooky.”

Davey shivers, unable to make out the difference between how good the hands in his muscle tissue feels and how hot Harry’s low, well-fucked voice sounds vibrating against his ear. “Well, I’m sorry, but you can’t have any part in it. Go eat your candy.”

“But it’s Halloween. I want to do spooky things.” Harry’s hands continue to make a very persuasive argument.

“Darlin’, I only work alone,” Davey says, but it must be a lie, because there must be someone controlling his mouth to keep spewing pet names that make him sound incredibly stupid.

Harry releases him and drops forward onto one hand. His dick is pressed lewdly against Davey’s hip, but his eyes are dark, shining, and earnest when he asks, “Why?” Because apparently, Harry has no trouble mixing vulnerability, sincerity, and sex.

Davey touches his fingertip to Harry’s swollen mouth, digging for whatever honeyed sweetness runs through his veins.

And then he tells him. Not all of it, of course. Not much at all, in fact. But enough. When he puts it in layman’s terms, and leaving the devil out of it, it’s actually not that complicated. “So basically, I accidentally magically bound myself to this guy and this band and this whole–well, _thing_ , and I accidentally created a whole insane army of fans who were _keeping_ me bound by repeating my own spells even when I wanted to stop. So I either had to kill them all or make them hate me so they’d stop reinforcing the binding. I’ve been working on the latter.”

“Fans are the worst,” Harry commiserates, nodding sagely as he pulls at his own lip, gathering more sweetness for Davey to kiss off. “I mean, they’re the absolute best. But they’re also the worst.”

It’s really nice to be sitting with someone whose life has arguably been entirely shaped by the demands of adoring fans. “You probably know better than I do,” Davey says, and for the first time in his life, he actually means it.

Harry doesn’t comment on that, and his smile doesn’t either. There’s an occasional appealing air of haughty mystery to him. “So you’re doing some magic to make your fans hate you?”

“No, actually,” Davy answers, slowly, trying to figure out how to answer without exposing the fact that he’s taken a recent interest in being a better, less self-obsessed person. “Just, you know, trying to swing the election.”

Harry’s hand curls over Davey’s bent knee, almost possessively. “I see. Delaying the apocalypse.”

Davey suppresses a flinch. The way he jokes about the apocalypse feels different than the way flippant way younger people refer to it. The apocalypse used to feel like his own personal secret. Now it’s just a fact of life that kids refer to as easily as they take tests to see what diseases their blood carries. He used to have a distinct vision of the apocalypse, and who would be at his side, and how he would find his salvation within it all.

Now, it’s the full-moon Halloween before the election, and he’s running his fingers through Harry’s curls. Harry leans into the pressure, cat-like. “Can you delay the delaying of the apocalypse to watch a scary movie with me? Like _Nightmare Before Christmas_ , or something?”

Davey kisses him. “I think you’re good for me,” he admits, which is a lot of sincerity for a night that also contained sex and vulnerability.

Harry kisses back. “I think you’re good for me, too.”

“Really?” He’s scoffing, not fishing for reassurance.

He doesn’t fish for reassurance until they’re on the couch, watching a movie he has every second of memorized, and he can’t stop thinking about it. “Do you really think I’m good for you?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s eyes stay fixed on the screen, but his fingers curl around Davey’s ankle and stroke the skin there thoughtfully. “I think it’s great for a person to get to explore their identity outside of just their one most defining relationship, don’t you?”

Davey is touched by this in ways he can’t articulate. “I help you explore your identity?”

Harry talks over the best song in the movie. He says he likes hearing Davey’s stories about what it was like to wear eyeliner before everyone started wearing eyeliner. He likes listening to Davey talk about having considered various gender affirming surgeries in the past and all the reasons he decided not to follow through at the time. He likes Davey’s perspectives on sleeping with men in the 1990s, and on closets and how hard it is to actually come out when people will see you kiss a girl on the cheek and assume that means you’re straight. He likes getting to feel like two bodies together, with no definite gender and no definite sexual preference, but somewhat similar track records. He likes feeling like they’re the same.

Davey’s first thought while hearing all this is that he would never have spoken so openly about himself if he’d known Harry was actually _listening._

But his secondary thought is more along the lines of, _Wow, we actually are good for each other._

When they make out on the couch in front of the movie, Davey thinks, _Let me make you mine, forever_ , and he seals it with a kiss, a private, warm, harmless wish of a spell with no dark magic behind it. It feels like falling in love, and nothing like drowning at all.


End file.
